by Sandra Byrd
“Annabel, after you.” Edward held his arm out so that I might pass by, and Clementine and Maud stood nearby.
It had not escaped me that Edward had neatly circumvented several questions.
The carriage was heavily loaded, and we creaked our way down the long drive, toward the train station in nearby Brockenhurst. The lawn to either side was overgrown but still sharply green, dotted with white clover, over which hovered the fat honeybees our property was once known for. My mother would have inherited Highcliffe had her unwise choices not intervened. It tethered me to her; it was the only place we’d lived together. When it was gone I should be adrift.
I had been encouraged to forget all about my mother, to not think of her or speak her name, for fear of reminding others of her condition and setting them wondering if madness was to be my legacy.
But still, I remembered her. Being at Highcliffe once again, after so many years away, provoked those happy memories even more strongly. A young girl, no more than twelve, ran in the field, a shepherdess gathering her cloudlike sheep, their nubby little tails flapping up and down, before night fell. What would come of her upon the house’s sale? Would she, too, be adrift?
Before we came to the end of the long entrance, which was rutted and muddy with neglect, the driver pulled over to let a cart pass. Who could be coming just when we were leaving? The cart held none but the driver and two heavy trunks. As it passed, I could clearly see that they were not just any trunks. Alarm flooded me and I swiftly turned back to Edward, sitting beside me.
“Those are my trunks. From the Rogers school. What is the meaning of this? I shall need my things when I return to teach two weeks hence.”
Clementine looked out the window; Maud peered at her stained gloves. Edward met my eyes straight on, smiling a frozen little smile.
“You shall not be returning to Winchester, Annabel.”
CHAPTER THREE
LONDON, ENGLAND
MAY, 1851
The next morning in London we ladies prepared ourselves, with Maud’s help, to visit the Great Exhibition. I stayed in the room that was normally young Albert’s, as he had remained at home at Highcliffe with his nanny. I’d not slept well, turning this way and that, listening to the outside night noises of cats crying and rats scurrying, the singsong pleas of early-morning pie and egg vendors, and worrying about what Edward had planned for me and why he had refused to say more. Highcliffe would soon be sold, the townhouse was small, and I had nowhere else to go. Where would I be sent?
And with whom? niggled at the back of my mind, which continued to present only one possibility. Edward had made an arrangement for me with Mr. Morgan. The Lord God promises His children that He has plans for them that will bring good, and not disaster.
In my experience, Edward worked in completely the opposite manner.
I closed my eyes for prayer and when I looked up, found that Clementine had entered the room and was looking wistfully at her young son’s furnishings. She stepped to the clock and wound it; winding the clocks was normally Edward’s exclusive domain but he would not enter the room while I was dressing, of course.
“Do you miss Albert already?” I asked. “I’m certain he misses you.” In the years after my mother was taken, I felt her loss keenly, like an amputated limb.
Clementine nodded. “We are not often separated. I have but a few more years until he will leave for school.” She drew herself up and asked, “Are you ready to depart?”
I nodded and followed her downstairs; our wide gowns squashed between the side walls and then popped into fullness again, like umbrellas expanding, once we were in the main hall. The carriage was brought round from the mews, and we were off.
The city bustled and bristled; wind had whisked away the London fog for the moment, and as we were not near the river it would not collect again for some hours. As we drove from Mayfair to Knightsbridge, caustic black flakes of coal still clung to the moist foliage that lined our route. We were let off near the south entrance to Hyde Park, and Clementine and I, arm in arm, made our way up the path. The smooth lane was lined on each side with trees, politely bobbing their slim green tops to all who passed. Constables on horseback patrolled, and there were hundreds of people from all over Great Britain wandering toward the Exhibition Hall, which beckoned in the distance. Prince Albert’s triumph.
Yes, a crystal palace, I thought, built completely of glass, like the world’s solarium; several stories high, it was a shimmering wedding cake with a vast atrium that resembled nothing so much as a spread lady’s fan.
“There are rather a lot of foreigners,” Clementine noted, looking around.
“That’s the reason for the worldwide exhibition, is it not?” I gently rebuked.
She ignored that. “We’re to meet Edward at the Maltese stand.” Clementine checked the finely wrought gold watch she always wore round her neck; it had belonged to her mother and was very dear to her. Her father, I understood, was a clock collector, as was Edward. They’d met when Edward was a guest at their home in Dorset at an event for clock fanciers and then, rather unexpectedly, he and Clementine married.
“It won’t do to be late.” Her eye twitched. Far from being wrapped in the gauze of connubial bliss, I suspected she was nearly as uneasy as I was with Edward, who could be warm or cool, friendly or not, as the situation warranted—for his benefit, that was. We walked in through the south entrance, as we’d been instructed, and up the transept. Crowds of people milled about: couples with chaperones, youngsters sporting cheerful sailor hats with long ribbon tails, mothers firmly holding children’s hands in their own gloved ones.
We had not walked far when I spied the Maltese flag. Malta’s stand was wedged between India’s and Ceylon’s, strangely, rather than across the hallway with Italy, its nearest neighbor. I’d often thought of Malta, a tiny island in the middle of the Mediterranean, as being much like myself. Isolated. An amalgam of cultures, but with the purity of none. I smiled broadly with the anticipatory pleasure of meeting other Maltese.
“Please be temperate,” Clementine admonished, her seriousness far advanced for someone of her youth. I hid my smile. My heart swelled again as we approached the Maltese stand with its beautiful fine art, sculptures and urns welcoming at the front, striking paintings hung on the walls behind.
I had never felt proud of my Maltese half. I hadn’t been allowed to, really. But now, something kindled.
My father. Who was he? Why hadn’t he wanted me or my mother? Why had he left her in the worst possible circumstances? She had, I believed, died of a broken heart. I could never forgive him that, whoever he was, nor the desperate straits his uncharitable lack of chivalry and attention had left me in.
I shook the thoughts off as I spied Edward standing among a group of men. I quickly looked the group over; Mr. Morgan was not present. I exhaled a bubble of relief.
“Yes, yes, here she is.” Edward reached his hand out toward me, entirely ignoring Clementine, who bristled but quickly hid the affront. “My cousin, Miss Annabel Ashton.”
The men were all shy of thirty years, rugged but well dressed, several with dark hair, clearly Maltese. One man, who seemed to be in charge, was English, or looked it, and had been staring intently at me. His hair was wheaten and pulled back into a sailor’s queue, his jawline square with a hint of a beard, as if it had been caressed in sand; it looked nothing like the carefully landscaped, sometimes bushy faces of most of the men I knew. Unlike the others, this man did not wear a top hat.
I caught and held his unwavering gaze; his eyes were unexpectedly deepest brown. Clementine, from behind me, cleared her throat, and I looked away.
“Miss Ashton,” the blond man bowed. “I am Captain Marco Antonio Dell’Acqua.”
What? He looked English. This was the young Maltese Dell’Acqua? “You are a man, not a lad,” I burst out, immediately wishing I could reclaim those words, but I could not. I felt Clementine glaring behind me. Be temperate indeed!
The men, save
Edward, burst out in pleasant laughter. “I’m most gratified that you noticed,” Dell’Acqua said teasingly, his English dashingly accented by a baritone, Italianate roll.
I blushed and corrected myself. “How do you do,” I said. “My cousin has spoken well of you.”
Edward smiled at me then, and I hoped I had regained my balance after an initial stumble. We made small talk for a moment, and then Captain Dell’Acqua’s colleagues returned to the back of the stand. Edward insisted that he’d just remembered he had arranged a meeting and asked Dell’Acqua if he would show me, and Clementine, of course, around the exhibition.
“Ecco, I would be delighted,” the captain said in his lightly accented English, which, I admit, I found enchanting.
“Now, and whilst he is in England, learn what you can about his plans and affairs through pleasant enquiries, and make him comfortable with England, and us in particular,” Edward whispered to me. “And then convey to me anything you learn.”
I frowned but did not reply. I could certainly be courteous. I could help where it was appropriate. But I was not going to spy. Why should I?
I reached around for Clementine to take my left arm, the captain on my right, but instead, she trailed a few feet behind us.
Very irregular.
“Perhaps with the right investment arrangements, Highcliffe might be saved.”
I looked at him, and he winked. He knew that I’d want to help save our home.
As we left Edward, he pulled a packet of ginger chews from within his trouser pocket and put one in his mouth; they soothed his touchy digestion.
We strolled toward the flamboyantly decorated ceiling displays, all swirls of baroque, which caught Clementine’s eye. As she spoke with the artisans, Captain Dell’Acqua made small talk with me.
“Your name, Miss Ashton, it does not sound Maltese, and yet your cousin said you were Maltese?”
Oh dear. Had we to begin here? First minutes of the conversation? For some peculiar reason, I did not want this man to view me or my mother negatively, as he surely would once he knew the circumstances.
“Ashton was my dear mother’s surname,” I said. “I never met my Maltese father.”
He blushed deeply, and I was glad of the sensitivity that showed. “I apologize on behalf of the men of Malta,” he said. “And for my ungallant question.”
“No apology required,” I answered quietly. Clementine had moved on to look at draperies across the aisle.
“My father is an Englishman,” the captain confided in return, perhaps in penance at having raised my shame. “And I have never met him. He came to Malta on a Grand Tour, where he met, wooed, won, and then left my beloved mother. He did not return.” His voice took on an edge of resentment.
I looked up wonderingly. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
This, then, must be what Edward meant when he’d said Dell’Acqua and I had more in common than Malta. I quickly changed the subject as Clementine rejoined us. “Edward says this is your first visit to England.”
He nodded. “I normally sail in warmer waters.”
Was he referring to the bitterness with which he held his English father?
“But I could not pass up the unique opportunity to meet with other men of commerce from all over the world. I understand Signora’s husband has similar sentiments.” He nodded toward Clementine. She did not disagree. “It is an age of exploration,” he continued, “and your Prince Albert believes that world trade might bring peace and prosperity to all nations. I hope so, too, as does your husband, I believe, Signora.” He looked at Clementine. “That’s why we’ve come from Malta and these others,” he spread his arm to indicate the other nations’ exhibits, “from their homelands.”
“Tell me of Malta,” I implored as we walked. “No one will speak of it with me—well, no one but a nun I once knew in Winchester, she being Maltese.”
“I should be very happy to do so. Let’s take a seat.” We made our way to a refreshment area, and after buying Mr. Schweppe’s effervescent ginger beer and soft Bath buns studded with chewy sultanas, we sat down.
I took a sip, and my eyes opened wide.
“You are quite well?” the captain asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Delighted. It’s just that it bubbles up the nose and down the throat at the same time.” I took another drink and giggled.
Clementine’s frown declared her dissatisfaction at my forthright comments if not at my swigging and giggling, but Dell’Acqua grinned.
“Malta is a small island, wholly surrounded by blue,” he said, his gaze searching my face, “perhaps the very color of your eyes. Our homes and buildings are sculpted from butter-yellow stone and are hung with black lanterns so each can find his way in the dark.”
“What a beautiful sentiment,” I said, thinking of it well beyond surface meaning.
He smiled. “Each home has a porch that invites both fresh air and meddlesome neighbors into loud family arguments. Often those neighbors come unsolicited to offer an opinion on the matter at hand.”
Even Clementine smiled at that.
“We have many churches, perhaps a hundred, perhaps more. But our churches are Roman Catholic. As are we.”
“As am I.” I pinched off a bite of my bun before catching the look of revulsion that flitted across Clementine’s face at my admission.
Dell’Acqua’s face, on the other hand, reflected astonishment. “È vero?” he asked, reflecting my earlier question, but slipping into Italian. “You are Catholic?”
“È vero,” I answered in return. “Truly. But in England, Captain, perhaps we should speak English.”
“Ah, the lady is correct.” He regained his composure. We spoke of the Chinese exhibit as we bought tea. China had declined to come to London, still angry over the British taking of Hong Kong, but someone had ensured there was a lovely display of Chinese porcelain, textiles, jade, lacquer and silk paintings, medicine roots, and, of course, tea. Clementine took two lumps of sugar; I stirred honey into mine.
“Did you know that Malta is famous for our honey, which is made from thyme-fed bees? I shall have to see if I can find some for you. Come, let’s visit the Greece exhibit—perhaps they have some, though it is certain to be of poorer quality than Malta’s.”
“Of course it is.” I laughed.
“Greeks are more famous for their ‘crazy honey’ than for their herbed honey.” He held one arm out to me and the other to Clementine.
“Surely you jest, ‘crazy honey’?” Please, please, let’s not discuss my mother’s shame today as well as my father’s.
“I do not jest, Miss Ashton. Ancient Greeks fed it to young women who would then be inspired to tell the truth, among other things—if they did not imbibe too much, that is.” He continued speaking of Malta and its people as we made our way to the Greek stand and admired their wares, but no matter how he charmed, he could not convince them to give some of their displayed golden honey to me. This was, after all, the Great Exhibition, not the Great Sale.
We then walked upstairs to the area in which there were toys displayed. Clementine found a drum she thought Albert would adore and Captain Dell’Acqua tried to acquire it, again cajoling and pleading with no luck.
“I am sorry, I failed. I am disgraced.” He looked chastened, and I liked him all the more for it. I suspected he was a man used to getting his way.
“You’ve been a very kind host,” Clementine reassured him as we returned to where we’d begun.
“I could not have asked for a better afternoon,” I offered. “I have somehow found something I was longing for but didn’t know until you began to speak.”
“And that would be . . . ?” He left the sentence dangling and grinned, having reclaimed, I saw, his swagger.
“Malta, of course, Malta.” I playfully returned the volley. “What else?”
Clementine looked askance at me, and honestly, I was rather surprised at myself. What was it about this captain that made me intemperate and impulsiv
e? Perhaps it was not him at all, but the freedom of London. All of it was rather intoxicating. I found that I did not, just then, miss the safety of the day school.
“We shall see you tomorrow evening.” Clementine nodded toward him, and the captain bowed toward each of us. He then took my hand in his own for a long moment. I did not wish for the moment to expire, but it did. I looked away from him to see Mr. Morgan in the distance, staring at the extended exchange between Captain Dell’Acqua and myself.
While we waited for Edward to collect us, Clementine studied a marble urn; I edged my way a bit farther into the booth. Dell’Acqua had left, but some of his sailors remained. The stand was not large, and two of them spoke in low voices, guttural, in a language difficult for many to penetrate and untangle.
“He is not taken with her. I do not care what you think you see,” the bald one, who wore the rank of lieutenant, answered the other. “Marco is here for two reasons alone: to try to meet his father and to gain investment for Malta. That’s all. If he breaks an English girl’s heart to avenge his poor mother along the way, why, so much the better. He’d say so himself.”
The second man nodded his agreement. “But did you see how he looked at her? Kept her hand? That is not like him.”
“Of course it is,” the lieutenant answered. “He’s the consummate flirt. Eh? You’ve seen him. And Everedge can help him achieve both of his objectives. In the end, that is what Marco cares about most. Passing time with a pretty girl will help him attain what he wants.”
“Won’t Everedge be enraged when he finds out his cousin’s heart was wooed and discarded?”
“Everedge only cares that she may be of assistance to him. Then?” He made a motion like tossing a handkerchief behind him. “The English, they are not like us. And Marco?” The lieutenant switched from Maltese to Italian. “Chi vuol pigliare uccelli non deve trar loro dietro randelli.” Deal gently with the bird you mean to catch.
“She’s educated, and likely to speak Italian,” the other said softly, looking at me. He smiled, and I smiled back, and then turned away, ears still tuned toward them.